The Man Who Beat Sherlock
by Deklava
Summary: A series of one-shots following the volatile and emotionally-charged relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Ian Adler. For mature readers.
1. Challenge Accepted

**Beta:** the divine **chasingriver**

**Note:** Written for a kinkmeme prompt. This fic is also a birthday gift for a dear friend who requested a Sherlock / genderswapped Irene Adler story. She's a big Tom Hiddleston fan, so he is the model for 'Ian Adler' here.

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes comes to see him, Ian Adler listens to what he wants, which is very different from what he actually needs.

They sit in the elegantly furnished front room. Ian calmly sips the tea prepared by his personal slave while Sherlock, who ignores his own cup, arranges the crime scene photographs on the marble-topped coffee table.

The male victim was a bondage enthusiast found strangled in his flat. Sherlock, having heard that Ian can work miracles with ropes and straps, wants an expert opinion.

"Look at those red marks on the ankles and upper thighs." His long white finger stabs at one of the pictures. Ian sees a chemical burn on the knuckle.

_Plays with corrosives. Not afraid of danger. Intriguing._

"What about them?"

"I want to know what kind of bondage device was used. I understand that this is your area of expertise."

Sherlock is irritable, but he's also nervous. His light grey eyes keep darting all over the room, taking in the oil paintings, period furniture and occasionally Ian himself.

He's trying to convince himself that he's only here on official business, Ian realizes. A lot of his 'visitors' do that in the beginning.

Business before pleasure.

Examining the gruesome pictures, Ian immediately recognizes what type of restraint was used to keep the victim's legs bent at the knee. He's not surprised that Sherlock wasn't able to do the same: from what he has heard, anything to do with sex leaves the famous detective without a clue.

Sherlock waits impatiently for an answer. Instead of giving it to him, Ian leans back in the leather armchair, crosses his legs, and tries not to smile over the rim of the bone china cup.

"No need to be so smug," the detective snaps. "Just tell me what type of restraint the killer used."

Ian sets the cup down, next to a pile of his brochures. They all depict him looking exactly as he does now: pale and angular and dressed entirely in black leather. "Actually, I believe it will suit your purposes better if I show you."

"Show me?"

"Yes. I understand that you're a hands-on type of person. So am I."

Sherlock's eyes widen. When he doesn't protest or leave at once, Ian does smile. He loves it when he is right about people.

* * *

The first thing that the stroppy detective must understand is that in Ian Adler's house, he is not in charge.

First, his clothes are taken from him. While Ian watches, arms crossed, two male assistants remove Sherlock's Belstaff coat and the rest of his apparel piece by piece, taking their time so that his sense of vulnerability heightens. Although he tries not to, the detective trembles like a frightened horse, clearly trying to decide whether to plunge further into the experience or call safeword ("Baker Street") and flee. He also has the beginnings of an erection. Impressed by the perfect size and shape of his penis, Ian shakes his head. What a waste.

When Sherlock is completely naked, Ian gestures for the men to leave and strolls over to his newest challenge.

"Tell me why you're really here, Mr. Holmes."

"You know why." Sherlock swallows and looks down. "I need data for that case."

"And what else?"

"Nothing else."

"Wrong," Ian says as he grasps that finely sculpted jaw. "You also need discipline, although you may not realize it."

Sherlock doesn't pull away or even lift his gaze. He is letting his body say what his lips can't or won't.

"You need distraction too." The professional Dominant ("the Man" to his wealthy clientele) glances at the old needle scars inside Sherlock's left elbow. "Still the addict, aren't you? No, don't answer. You may not be shooting drugs any longer, but you will do practically anything else to avoid being bored."

Sherlock follows orders and doesn't reply. Good.

Ian releases him. "Kneel, please."

He does, a little too eagerly.

"You've needed this for a long time, haven't you?"

"I don't know."

"I'll take that as a yes." Ian's fingers descend from Sherlock's face to one of his dusky nipples, brushing it lightly. The detective's cock hardens even more and a clear drop appears at the tip. Ian bends over, wipes it off with his index finger, and makes Sherlock taste himself.

"You have such potential. Would you like me to show it to you?"

When Sherlock's only reply is a nod, Ian's eyes narrow.

"Answer me."

"Yes, I'd like you to show me my potential."

Ian takes a riding crop from the implement covered wall and runs its polished tip over Sherlock's nipples and cock in a lazy triangular motion.

"You left something out," he says in a soft voice laced with barely-hidden menace. When the detective looks confused, the self-professed 'recreational scolder' sighs. "Whenever you respond to me- which is the only time that you're permitted to speak for the next hour, you will always conclude with 'Sir'. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

Sherlock realizes his mistake a split second before the crop descends sharply onto his left nipple. He squeaks and stammers, "Yes, Sir!"

"That's better." Ian notices with approval that he does not jump up or break position in any way. "Now apologize for forcing me to remind you."

"I'm sorry…Sir."

There's a tiny pause before the honorific: Ian's not sure whether Sherlock is merely unsteady in this new role or being subtly rebellious. Either way, the misstep earns the detective a stinging blow to his other nipple. As he yelps and recoils, his cock prods the air. The crop tip lowers and traces its circumference slowly, spreading thick fluid all the way around the crown.

"This is where I'll hit the next time you hesitate, Mr. Holmes. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good boy." Ian stands up straight and brings the glistening crop to those full lips. "Clean this, please."

Sherlock does. Watching his pink tongue glide over the dark leather, Ian Adler has to remind himself to stay in control. Sherlock Holmes will still be a virgin when he leaves this place, but he definitely won't be innocent any longer.

* * *

He takes Sherlock to his bedroom, an honour rarely accorded to a client. But Sherlock isn't really a client. He's a challenge that must be overcome. A puzzle that needs to be taken apart and solved over and over again.

First, Ian wants to give him the 'data' he primarily came for: a demonstration of how the murder victim's legs were secured. After Sherlock lies on his back on the mattress, Ian attaches padded leather cuffs to his wrists and secures them to the eyelets embedded in the mahogany headboard. The detective watches him work, too intrigued to be anxious or embarrassed. But when Ian grabs two sets of leg restraints from the trunk kept under the bed and pushes his thighs apart, Sherlock hesitates.

"Permission to speak, Sir?"

The request and its careful phrasing aren't inspired by a submissive impulse yet, Ian knows. Sherlock has merely grasped the rules of the game.

"Granted."

"My back." The detective looks chagrined. "I strained it three days ago. Stumbled on the steps leading to my flat. My friend, Dr. John Watson, says I must be careful when lying down."

He doesn't add 'Sir', but Ian lets it pass under these circumstances. "Thank you- that's something I need to know. Anything else, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, Sir."

Ian grabs one of the huge pillows and carefully tucks it under Sherlock's lower back, elevating his smooth white arse. The cheeks part slightly as the detective bends his long legs at the knee, revealing the tight, rosy pucker that's never been touched and explored in a non-medical context.

Ian forces himself to look away and concentrate on the task at hand, lest the twitching and swelling in his tight leather trousers get worse. After years of doing this, he's become rather clinical (or maybe cynical was a better word) when confronted with naked beauty, male or female. But Sherlock Holmes is different. The renowned consulting detective is worldly in many ways: he's seen bloody corpses, nearly been killed on a number of occasions, and used to power-shoot cocaine. But at age thirty-four, he's never been fucked. Ian hadn't thought anyone was that innocent any more: discovering otherwise excited the despoiler in him.

If he's not careful, Sherlock might undo _him, _not the other way around.

He secures two wide belts around Sherlock's thighs, one on each leg just below the hip. Two more cuffs follow, these ones buckled onto the ankles. Each restraint has a steel ring attached: when Ian produces a pair of double-ended clasp hooks, Sherlock's ankles are bound to his thighs.

"There you have it, Mr. Holmes," he declares, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Exactly how James Hathaway was tied when the killer struck."

The detective lifts his head off the pillow and surveys his restrained, naked form curiously. He tests the range of movement in his legs, brain greedily absorbing every physical sensation and visual impression.

"Of course, Mr. Hathaway was additionally compromised by the vibrator," Ian says, keeping his tone casual while eying Sherlock intently. "The prostate stimulation would have affected both his coordination and reaction time."

Sherlock stares at him. "I never told you about that. How did you know?" When he sees Ian pick up the crop, he stutters, "No, wait, I'm sorry, Sir-"

Too late. The tip smacks the side of his penis hard enough to sting without doing damage. He writhes and gasps for air, cuffed hands tightened into white-knuckled fists. His expression is agonised, but there's something in his eyes that resembles euphoria.

Ian waits until he goes still before saying, "How did I learn about the vibrator? I know one of the police investigators in the case. Well, I know what he likes, anyway." He pauses and leans in close. "So, Sherlock, you now have most of the information you came for. But not all of it. My question to you is: how thorough do you wish to be?"

* * *

Sherlock wants _all _the data, apparently.

Ian dons a pair of black nitrile gloves from a boxed supply that the erotica shop orders specifically for him. Behind him, Sherlock is taut with anticipation and even a little fear, judging from the way the detective's teeth worry his bottom lip.

"Close your eyes and spread your legs more," Ian orders. When Sherlock does, the Man slicks his fingers liberally with lube. It takes every ounce of his considerable willpower to stay calm. He is about to _penetrate_ Sherlock Holmes. He'll be using his fingers instead of his cock, but a breach is a breach. It's a victory on his part, a willing surrender on Sherlock's.

If he has his way, Sherlock will be desperate for more. But Ian won't give it to him today.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

The detective catches his breath noisily when the Man's slippery digits stroke that sensitive area behind his balls. "Shhh," Ian whispers as he goes lower and applies gentle pressure to the band of muscle guarding that virgin hole. Under his skilled ministrations, the tight pucker flutters and finally relaxes enough to admit a slick fingertip.

Sherlock gasps and grinds down against the intruder. Ian places one hand on his hip to steady him and presses deeper. He curls his finger and searches for the spot that will drive the other man crazy.

When Ian finds it, Sherlock cries out. His lids flutter, his hips push forward in silent invitation, and his toes curl tightly. "Oh," he moans. "That feels so good. Please, more. Right there. Please, Sir."

Ian draws slow, lazy circles around Sherlock's prostate, enjoying the way the detective whines and tugs fruitlessly against the wrist cuffs. Sherlock is obviously desperate to touch his cock, which lies hard and wet against his flat belly. Ian refuses to help him out or free one wrist so he can do it himself: the intensity and novelty of the prostate massage has him so excited that a single stroke would make him come immediately.

And that wouldn't do at all.

"Please, Sir," the detective chokes, dark curls tangling on the pillow as he throws his head from side to side. "Please, touch me."

Smothering a grin, Ian says briskly, "I _am_ touching you." To prove his point, he drags his fingertip across the sensitive gland. Sherlock's knees fall apart even wider and his struggles accelerate.

"Mmm, oh, God. Please, Sir."

"Please what?" Ian inserts a second finger, carefully stretching the muscle in preparation for something bigger.

"Touch my cock." Sherlock swallows. His balls are tight against the base of his erection. "Please, Sir."

Ian decides to meet the request halfway. Using his other hand, he grasps the base of Sherlock's penis and squeezes just hard enough to stave off the orgasm brewing within. The detective's eyes bulge and his expression is so comically shocked that Ian has a hard time staying in character.

"You asked me to touch your cock, Sherlock. Problem?"

The other man's only response is a frustrated whimper.

"Not what you wanted, I know. But _this_ certainly is."

Ian takes his hands away from Sherlock, picks up the vibrator, and adds an extra coating of lube. Slowly, carefully, he sinks it into Sherlock's body, watching in fascination as the sphincter stretches to accommodate the slippery toy. He's used it on several clients, so he knows exactly when the curved tip will touch the detective's already-agitated prostate.

Right…

About…

Now.

He presses the button, and the toy begins to buzz and vibrate.

Sherlock twists on the bed and screams. "Oh, oh, God!" For a moment Ian is concerned about his injured back, and considers calling one of his slaves in to physically restrain the young man. But Sherlock soon stops thrashing like a fish on a hook and lies there, trembling wildly. His cock jerks and streams pre-ejaculate all over his stomach, the muscles in his pale thighs tighten and his bent knees quake. He's trying to talk, to beg, but all he can manage are moans and gasps.

Ian could spend hours watching him come undone like this, but that would be as cruel as it was fun. Sherlock Holmes isn't used to this kind of sensory overload, and Ian doesn't want to make him literally insane with pleasure. Some of his fellow Doms might disagree, but Ian Adler really does believe that there is such a thing as too much.

"Would you like to come now?" he croons.

Sherlock nods frantically.

"Say it then."

"Please, Sir, please let me come!"

Ian grips the base of the vibrator and slides it briskly in and out of Sherlock's body in a fucking motion, making sure to rub the buzzing tip against the detective's prostate during each inward plunge. With his other gloved hand he strokes Sherlock's entire length, tightening his grip at the top and sending precome oozing through his fingers.

Sherlock is so close that it doesn't take long. He pulls his knees toward his chest and issues a shuddering wail as he comes everywhere: on the duvet, over Ian's hand, on himself. Ian continues to fuck and stroke him until Sherlock finally slumps on the mattress, sweaty and boneless. Then he releases the other man's softening cock, gently extracts the toy, and puts it in a basket to be cleaned later.

"So now you know why Mr. Hathaway was distracted enough to be an easy kill," he says after Sherlock's breathing returns to normal.

Sherlock's only response is a sated groan. His chest rises and falls slowly and his face has a dazed, sleepy look.

After tossing his ruined gloves into the rubbish bin, Ian rings a bell on the bedside table. A young blonde woman –one of his subs in training- appears in the doorway and takes in the entire scene. She disappears into the bathroom across the hall, comes back with a wet washcloth, and cleans the congealing sperm off Sherlock's face and body while her Master undoes the restraints. When she leaves, Sherlock mumbles, "I had no idea."

"That it would be so intense?"

"Yes."

Ian actually hadn't thought it would be so intense either. His own legs are beginning to feel rubbery, so he sits on the side of the bed. "Would you like some water?"

Sherlock nods. Ian rings the bell a second time, and a different house sub brings a bottle of Perrier. While the drowsy young man drinks it, the Man makes a dignified exit to the bathroom across the hall, where he locks the door, bites his wrist, and has a quick, urgent wank while he stares at himself in the mirror.

Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who's been taken apart this afternoon, it seems.

* * *

By the time Sherlock is ready to leave, things appear to be all business between them once again. The detective is granite-faced and cool in the thick Belstaff coat that covers his lithe body like a shield, and Ian has reassumed the lethally charming persona that his clientele finds both titillating and terrifying.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he says pleasantly as they shake hands at the front door, "I'm pleased to have been of service."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Odd choice of words, since everyone who comes here serves you."

"Yes, that's usually the case," Ian chuckles as he scans the detective's face. The afterglow has subsided, but it's still there. "Do come again soon."

Sherlock pauses before making what may be a joke. Or perhaps he's simply being honest.

"After today, I won't have the energy for awhile."

Then he leaves. But the Man knows that he'll likely be back before long.

If he isn't, then Ian just might go looking for him.

And neither of them will regret it.


	2. Broken at Dawn

Ian Adler doesn't need to turn over or even open his eyes to know that Sherlock Holmes is in the bed with him. He can _feel_ the other man's presence, which crackles with tension and nervous energy.

He rolls slowly onto his back. Sherlock's breath catches for a second before resuming its staccato pace.

"Is it the boredom again?" Ian whispers.

Sherlock's response betrays his desperation and need. "It's _everything_."

The Man sits up.

"Fortunately for you, I have a cure for that," he says as he reaches under the bed for the straightjacket.

* * *

The first time Sherlock visited him in the dark, Ian had been startled, but not really surprised. He knew from his Met contacts that the celebrated detective had not been given a challenging case in over a week, and for men like Sherlock Holmes, boredom was toxic.

Remembering their first (and last) encounter, Ian had expected him to show up eventually, but not at three o'clock in the morning. Sherlock had dismantled the lock on a downstairs window, bypassed the alarm, and slipped into the Man's large bedroom, neither knowing nor caring what time it was. When Ian woke up, he'd taken one look at Sherlock's ashen face and trembling hands, and said, "I know what you need."

He did, and proved it.

That morning, the rising sun's rays had highlighted a bound and gagged Sherlock lying spread-eagled on the mattress, milky skin covered with crop welts and patches of his own drying semen. His sobs of relief and ecstasy acted as background music while Ian wanked in front of his bathroom mirror and wondered how much longer it would be before Sherlock consumed him completely.

* * *

Sherlock is so agitated tonight that Ian gives him something to fight against. He buckles the shaking detective into a black latex straightjacket and secures his ankles with leather cuffs. When Sherlock struggles in his bindings and starts groaning, Ian seals his lips with a rubber gag and blindfolds him, shutting the world out completely.

Muffled, Sherlock's noises are even more erotic. Listening to them, Ian wills his stirring penis to remain dormant, and after a tug of war between his will and his libido, it does. Mastering lords and ladies is easy: controlling oneself is the real challenge in situations like this.

Once Sherlock's agitated squirming subsides, Ian picks up the riding crop and runs it along the detective's finely planed cheekbone. The Man's rippled grey dressing gown falls open, but there is no witness to his nudity.

"Any recent injuries I should know about?" He is whispering, but in the stillness of the night, his voice carries like soft thunder. "Nod yes or no."

Sherlock shakes his head and makes a noise that sounds like "Please, Sir."

"On your front. Arse up, chest down."

The detective obeys. He has to struggle with his balance a bit, but he finally succeeds.

Ian sets the crop on the bed and reaches around Sherlock to unbuckle the latter's belt. Then he tugs the young man's trousers and pants down to mid-thigh. He feels Sherlock's erection, wet and hard, spring free and brush against his wrist.

"You interrupted my sleep. Again. Since you're currently unable to apologize, I'll have to take satisfaction via a harsher method."

He raises the crop and brings it down on one marble-smooth arse cheek. The sound of punished flesh is startlingly loud in the otherwise silent house. Sherlock screams into the rubber bit and jumps in place, but he does not attempt to wriggle away. He knows it would be futile anyway.

More blows follow, until Sherlock's creamy buttocks are striped with red welts that will soon turn into dark, lovely bruises. During a pause in the punishment, Ian reaches between the detective's legs to make sure that the other man is still hard and enjoying this.

Sherlock is. Both hard and _clearly_ enjoying this, if the growing wet patch on the duvet is any indicator.

Ian releases him and runs his fingers lightly along Sherlock's crack, lingering briefly over the detective's hole. It's dry and impossibly tight, but Ian has never backed down from a challenge.

"I presume you're still a virgin? Kept yourself away from predators since we last played?"

Sherlock nods. Ian swallows twice before leaning over, grasping the other man's silky curls, and yanking his chin off the mattress.

"For a virgin, you're a shameless slut, my boy."

His teeth close over Sherlock's ear, making the bound detective shudder and whimper.

"I won't fuck you, but I'll fuck _with_ you."

God he wants to throw off his robe, give himself permission to get erect, and plunge his slick length onto the perfect body on his bed. He knows that Sherlock would be willing. But Ian is truly afraid of what could happen afterward. He's not a big fan of uncertainty: that's partly why he does this job. It allows him to maintain control over his interactions. He can't afford to let infatuation make him anyone's slave, even if that 'anyone' loves being bound, whipped, and fingered to orgasm at his hands.

Fortunately for his own sanity, the Man is good at improvising.

"On your back," he orders with a smack of the crop for emphasis. He licks his lips as Sherlock struggles into position, emitting the odd whine as cropped skin brushes painfully against the duvet.

"Knees to chest."

Sherlock obeys, huffing air through his nose. Ian undoes the ankle cuffs and throws them aside before removing the young man's trousers and pants completely and stacking two pillows under the latter's hips. Remembering what happened when he was in a similar position last time, Sherlock trembles and his sounds become more urgent: as if the rock-hard cock leaking fluid all over his stomach didn't signal his desperation enough. The moonlight falls across his captive form, making his skin glow and the latex straightjacket turn an ominous shade of blue-black.

"Good," Ian says crisply although the real word in this case is _exquisite._ "Feet down, and keep your legs spread."

Sherlock is remarkably obedient, which is a stark contrast to what Ian's contact at the Met keeps saying. The kindest phrase the man's ever used to describe the consulting detective is "Bloody arrogant sod". More proof that holding the key to someone's pleasure gives you unlimited power over them.

Ian opens the bedside table drawer and takes out a vibrating prostate massager that arrived via personal messenger today. He was going to use it on himself for stress relief, but taking Sherlock apart with it now promised to be a much sweeter distraction.

When he turns it on, Sherlock gives a full-body jolt and gasps. Both are typically fear responses, but Ian knows that the detective is far from afraid.

"Such an eager young man," he croons as he runs the buzzing edge along Sherlock's cheek. "Where would you like me to put this? Show me."

The detective pushes his hips forward and lets both knees collapse to the side, splaying his long legs even wider and putting his clenched hole on full and wanton display. He's too needy to feel self-conscious.

"Oh. I see. Same as always. So deliciously predictable."

The click of the lube bottle being opened sends a massive spike in both their heart rates. When the Man presses the toy's slicked-up tip to Sherlock's perineum and draws circles on the hyper-sensitive skin, the younger man does an excellent impression of death by strangulation. He gurgles, bites the gag so hard that his jaw muscles shake, and beats his head repeatedly against the mattress. Ian sees that he's keeping his hips still only via herculean effort.

"Have you been wicked, Sherlock?" Ian holds the lube bottle aloft, drizzling its slippery contents across his plaything's puckered entrance. "Hmmm? Tell me."

He nearly laughs aloud when the detective nods so rapidly that drool splashes everywhere. Those full lips look so lovely stretched around the rubber bit. Sherlock would be gorgeous as a male bondage model, but Ian has no intention of sharing him with anyone else in the business.

He pushes the massager halfway in, and Sherlock's greedy hole does the rest: the younger man's buttocks clench at the intrusion and the device disappears into his body until only the flared base remains visible. The vibration against his prostate causes him to arch his back and grind his arse onto the duvet: all movements that drive the toy's rounded tip back and forth across that precious cluster of nerves.

The sight of that brilliant man being reduced to a panting, sobbing slut is so filthy and erotic that Ian bends his own rules- slightly. He sheds his robe, springs onto the bed, and straddles Sherlock's waist. The blindfold and straightjacket will keep the detective from seeing or feeling the Man's naked flesh, which is why Ian gives himself permission to massage his cock back to full erection. When he can actually _feel_ the toy's vibrations coursing through Sherlock's body and making his own erogenous zone hum, he bites his lip and begins to wank furiously.

He thought he had seen and done it all. Until now. Playing with this cerebral virgin has challenged his control and made him question his previously iron-clad boundaries. He knows he's been changed, but has yet to determine the extent of the 'damage'.

The mattress springs creak loudly as Ian Adler and Sherlock Holmes, both men with a reputation for being driven and having no heart, push and grunt against each other. Finally Sherlock goes rigid just before shooting load after load of hot semen onto himself. Ian throws his head back and lets Sherlock's muffled screams conceal his own ecstatic noises as he comes all over the bucking figure beneath him. It's one of the most intense orgasms he's ever had: some of his release reaches the headboard. A _lot_ of it ends up on Sherlock's face.

Once his cock stops pulsating, Ian braces his hands on the bed to stay upright and waits for his heart rate to return to normal. His eyes fall to the black latex covering Sherlock's heaving chest, and widen at the sight of large pools of congealing sperm spread across the glossy surface. A horribly dirty- and utterly delicious – idea pops into his head.

After crawling off of Sherlock and gently extracting the prostate massager, he reaches up and unbuckles the gag. Sherlock licks his lips and rotates his jaw before whispering, "Thank you, Sir."

Ian strokes his flushed cheek with the back of one hand. "Such a good boy. I don't often do this, but you've done so well that I'm giving you another reward."

That gets Sherlock's attention fast. The detective raises his head off the pillow and looks alert, even with the blindfold on.

"Open your mouth."

Sherlock does.

Ian swirls his forefinger through their comingled releases. Then he places it on Sherlock's tongue. The younger man looks surprised, like an infant presented with a strange new food. But when he finally swallows, he moans.

"See how delicious you taste?"

Sherlock's response goes right to Ian's gut. "Yes… and it's not just me, is it?"

* * *

The next few hours are a repeat of Sherlock's last nocturnal visit.

After removing the detective's straightjacket and blindfold, Ian rings for his personal manservant, who brings bottled water and wipes them down with warm flannels so that they can sleep comfortably until sunrise. When a house sub brings a heavily-laden breakfast tray, Sherlock only accepts a cup of tea, saying that he "already ate."

Ian nearly chokes on his toast at that.

It's when Sherlock is at the door, preparing to depart, that things veer from their usual course. When the detective's gloved hand touches the knob, Ian seizes him by the wrist and shirt collar and forces him against the wall. Sherlock squeaks in surprise, but his pupils dilate instantly.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night, Sherlock?"

"Y-yes, of course. Wasn't it obvious?"

"Extremely. And so did I."

"I know. I believe I sampled the results."

Inflamed by those words, Ian works his thigh between Sherlock's legs, keeping him pinned in all the right places. "I'm sure you'll be back soon, and I'll be more than pleased to see you. But in many respects you're too innocent for this vicious world we live in. I now feel obliged to do something about that." He pauses and continues in a tone that's practically a growl. "You've visited me four times this month, and each time I've taken care of you. Next time you show up, I'm going to just _take_ you."

This is it. Ian is going for broke, lest this arrangement finally break him. They stare at each other in the bright foyer, the warning cum promise hanging heavily between them.

Sherlock's response crumbles Ian Adler's last defenses.

"See you Saturday."


	3. Meeting the Family

It's been so long since a husband and wife requested his services that Ian Adler has almost forgotten how much fun it can be to have two pets instead of one.

After the money arrives in his account, he visits them in their luxury suite at the Montcalm hotel. They're a stereotypical power couple: good-looking, fashionably dressed, and treating the place as if they own it. Maybe they do.

Ian can tell that neither the man nor the woman is an experienced BDSM player, but they are willing to pay obscene amounts of money to learn. Believing that everyone should 'start as a bottom', the Man orders 'Mr. and Mrs. Myers' to kneel, and then unpacks his sleek leather suitcase full of toys.

Ian lets himself forget about Sherlock Holmes long enough to relish what his own devious mind can think up during the four hours that follow. He ties the woman spread-eagled on the bed, clamps her nipples and treats her body to alternate drips of hot wax and ice water while her husband buries his face in her cunt. Then he blindfolds the man, crops his white buttocks until a vivid red blush covers the skin, and makes him bend over the huge four-poster bed while the woman plunges into his arse with an electrified strap-on. As the man moans his pleasure into the luxurious sheets, Ian remembers how Sherlock makes noises just as pretty during their post-midnight games.

He can't_ wait_ for Saturday.

Finally, the allotted time is up. Mr. and Mrs. Myers get dressed in their bedroom while Ian goes into the sitting room to pack his suitcase. When they return, the husband goes directly to the crystal bar set while the wife, a beautiful brunette, approaches. She is positively glowing.

"Thank you, Mr. Adler. You were all we expected and more."

Ian opens his mouth to give an equally courteous reply, but the only sound he makes is a gasp of surprise as a needle sinks into his neck. Acting on instinct, he turns around to swing, but the movement throws him off balance and he crashes to the floor, right at the feet of the tall and stately Mr. Myers. When he tries to rise, a high-heeled shoe plants itself on his back, anchoring him to the Moroccan carpet.

The last thing Ian hears before passing out is the soft, elegant voice of Myers saying, "After you've rested, Mr. Adler, we have an important topic to discuss. Namely, my brother Sherlock."

* * *

When Ian wakes up, he's surprised to find himself still in the hotel suite. But circumstances _have_ changed while he was asleep: now he's the one lying on the bed, limbs secured to the posts by detachable restraints. His mouth is sealed by one of his own gags.

He's not naked though: his black silk shirt is open, but his tight leather trousers and Salvatore Ferragamo leather boots are still on. Whatever 'Mr. and Mrs. Myers' have in store for him, sexual abuse is likely not on the agenda. He doesn't discount the possibility, though, which is why he automatically cringes when he detects movement to his left.

There's no sign of the lovely Mrs. Myers, but her 'husband' is sitting on an upholstered armchair, tall and rapier-slim in a grey pinstriped suit. When he sees that Ian is awake, his face splits in a broad smile that gives him an uncanny resemblance to a shark.

"Mr. Adler," he says solicitously, "My name is Mycroft Holmes. I do apologize for this turn of events. But I had to understand what my brother finds so fascinating about you." He rises and approaches the bed, hands in his pockets. "I must say, you were an excellent birthday present for my dear assistant. She's been working so hard lately. Thanks to your magic touch and creative way with erotic theatre, she'll be happy for weeks."

After giving the Man's bound form a final once-over, Mycroft Holmes returns to his chair. Ian notices that it has an extra cushion added: the beautiful assistant _had_been quite rough with the strap-on, he remembers.

Once he's comfortably seated, Mycroft picks up a dossier.

"Ian James Adler, aged thirty-six. Born in London to Israeli father and British mother. Orphaned at the age of sixteen, when your parents were killed by a bomb in Tel Aviv."

Ian's instinctive reaction is hot, surprised anger, but he forces himself to calm down. He cannot change the past. At one time grief and desire for vengeance fuelled him, but he knows for a fact that the terrorist who set that bomb is dead. He saw to it personally.

"You spent two years in Ashfield juvenile prison for assaulting your foster father. The fact that you left him a lifelong invalid would normally have warranted a much more severe sentence, but there were apparently extenuating factors." Mycroft eyes him thoughtfully over the dossier. "You've channelled your aggression into much more profitable- not to mention pleasurable- endeavours."

Ian makes an irritated noise. He wants his suave captor to get to the obvious point of this confrontation: Sherlock.

Mycroft lays the file aside. "So tell me. What is the exact nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" When Ian flexes his jaw around the gag and gives him an annoyed look, the other man sighs.

"Of course. How thoughtless of me."

He stands up, undoes the gag's straps, and extracts it carefully from his prisoner's mouth.

"There. Better?"

Ian shifts his jaw about and licks his lips. "I don't suppose I could have some water?"

"Certainly. And since we're both gentlemen who have come to know each other _intimately_, I am presuming that you won't be so childish as to spit it on me."

Ian had actually been thinking about doing just that, but with the element of surprise gone, he shakes his head.

"Good," Mycroft says as he brings an open bottle of water to the Man's lips, "I'm glad you changed your mind."

Ian takes several swallows to soothe his dry mouth. Then he says, "Discretion is the bedrock of my profession, Mr. Holmes. Therefore, what Sherlock and I do is none of your business."

The elder Holmes brother sets the bottle on the bedside table, next to the lube container and box of latex gloves, both mementos of the earlier adventure. "It could be," he warns in a tone that suggests less uncertainty than the words imply.

"I genuinely doubt it."

"I take my brother's well-being very seriously, Mr. Adler. He's a grown man with the intellect of a great philosopher and the impulses of an incorrigible child. Keeping him safe has become a full-time occupation."

"He's in no danger with me."

"I wonder if that's really true." Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed and places a cool, graceful hand on Ian's bare chest, just above the sternum. "I'm sure Sherlock is safe physically, but everything I've learned about you leads me to believe that you're negligent in other matters. Take the Baron and Baroness of Rothes. You were a catalyst in their terrible divorce last year by having an affair with each of them separately."

"Are you telling me Sherlock is married?" Ian rolls his eyes. He knows he shouldn't provoke Mycroft: the man could kill him and dispose of his body as effortlessly as most people throw out their rubbish. But he hates feeling helpless, and verbal rebellion keeps panic and fear at bay. Besides, he's figured out by now what this whole situation really represents: a concerned older sibling who's basically saying, "Break my brother's heart and I'll do the same to your neck."

Not necessarily a life-threatening confrontation. Is it?

"Most amusing. But I require you to take my concerns more seriously if we are to proceed."

Mycroft looks almost apologetic as he brings his fingers down hard on the Man's sternum.

Pain shoots through Ian's chest, robbing him of breath. His lungs feel like they're contracting to half their size and being stabbed with hot needles.

"What you're undergoing is known as compressive asphyxia," Mycroft explains, as calmly as if they're discussing driving directions. "I'm mechanically limiting expansion of your lungs by compressing your torso, interfering with breathing. If I continue for much longer, you will lose consciousness and, unfortunately, die."

Ian tries to breathe but it hurts, so he gasps and gurgles and locks stares with his tormentor, not wanting to plead for mercy but knowing that in a few seconds, his body will start doing it for him. He hasn't wet himself since he was a child, but a warning twinge in his bladder suggests that the 'dry spell' is about to be broken….

Mycroft releases him, clearly feeling that he's now got an appropriately captive audience. "I hope I won't have to do that again. I prefer not to inflict pain during discussions like these. It makes us adversaries, Mr. Adler, when we should be attempting to reach an understanding."

Ian waits until his coughing is under control before replying. "An understanding about what? Are you telling me to stay away from Sherlock?"

"Not at all. It would be futile, anyway, because my brother is very headstrong. He's fixated on you, and to affect an adequate separation, I'd have to incarcerate or kill you." Mycroft lets those options weigh heavily in the air before continuing. "Sherlock, as you well know, is a virgin. But I understand that he intends to change that status. With you."

"And you want to know what I'll do with him… afterward."

"That's correct." The elder Holmes inclines his head. "I worry about my brother constantly and wish to forestall any possibility of him being hurt. I know he's not been compensating you financially for your services, so if it's your intention to abandon him after he's been… _altered_… I'd be glad to pay you to keep fulfilling his needs."

For the first time in his professional life, the notion of accepting money for intimacy makes Ian Adler cringe. He knows that Mycroft Holmes is wealthy enough to make his life even more comfortable and decadent. But he thinks of Sherlock, who slips into his bed after midnight unannounced, trembling so violently with need that the young man can barely speak, and his answer comes fast.

"No."

Mycroft looks intrigued. "No?"

"That's right." Despite the refusal, he's not afraid: for the first time since this pseudo-interview began, he's on the same side as Mycroft, and that makes him safe. "I'm willing to see Sherlock for as long as he wishes to visit me. I find your brother fascinating. He's a refreshing exception to what I see daily in my line of work. To most of my clients, I'm a male prostitute with an excellent whip hand. To Sherlock, I'm…." He fumbled for the right word. "I'm a saviour. He not only craves my talents, he needs them. I could never betray him."

Mycroft gets up from the bed and studies Ian for what must only be a few seconds, but under that laser-bright stare, feels like several minutes. Then he bends over, so close that Ian can see the intricate birdseye pattern in his wool suit, and unfastens one wrist restraint. Before he does the other one, he stands up straight again and says, "I believe we understand each other now?"

Ian looks him in the eye. "Yes. I believe we do."

Mycroft undoes the other wrist cuff. Ian sits up carefully, stomach muscles rippling, and shuffles down the mattress so he can free his bound ankles. When he finally climbs off the bed and stands, Mycroft presents him with a glass of 30-year-old Lagavulin from the bar set.

"You know, Mr. Holmes," he says as he accepts it, "you could have simply asked me what my intentions were."

"Yes, but I preferred to ensure your honesty." Mycroft takes a well-bred sip of his drink. "I do believe the ends justified the means. Sherlock is a great responsibility, Mr. Adler. I hope you're prepared. He's headstrong, demanding, and unpredictable. Not dissimilar to yourself, I suspect."

_Oh, you really have no idea_, Ian thinks. But he takes a swallow of the scotch, relishing its smoky-hot aftertaste, and says, "You suspect correctly."

He sets the crystal glass on the bedside table and bends toward his left boot, whose side zipper is partly open. When Mycroft doesn't stop him or even comment, Ian knows that the older man never saw him unzip it deliberately while he was freeing himself.

He moves quickly. With a lightning-fast flick of his thumb, he removes the cap from the short, narrow syringe. It's a special blend that he uses mostly for defense, but occasionally for recreation. This situation is a little of both.

Mycroft realizes that something is up, but not before Ian plunges the needle into his shoulder and injects the contents. He hisses in pain and surprise like an outraged Persian cat and lurches forward, but the motion sends him crashing onto his front.

Most people would be informally sentenced to death for a move like this, the Man suspects. But he believes that his brazen effrontery has actually earned him a reprieve: anyone capable of outsmarting Mycroft Holmes would be perfectly suited to the task of keeping Sherlock safe, and he and Mycroft both know it.

Ian has just proven that he's more valuable alive than dead.

"Sherlock will always be safe with me," Ian says as he tosses the empty syringe onto the bed. He's sure that Mycroft's people will want to analyse its contents later, to verify that he hasn't used some poison that takes thirty years to act. "And you, Mr. Holmes- you'll be fine. I've used this lovely concoction on a lot of people. You'll sleep for a few hours, and enjoy the most interesting dreams. Maybe I'll be in them, yes?"

Ian knows he should leave now, before bodyguards come to check on their employer. (He also wouldn't be surprised if 'Mrs. Myers' was deadly with a Sig or stiletto.) But not before he gives some parting advice.

He goes to his suitcase, which sits next to the bedroom door, opens it, and takes out his favourite riding crop. So many famous arses have been blistered with its polished tip that he frequently considers insuring it. When Mycroft rolls onto his side in an approximation of the recovery position and glares up at him, Ian smiles like a fallen angel and runs the crop edge across that nobly formed cheekbone.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Holmes. I hope you don't take this personally, but I've always believed that the bigger you are, the harder you eventually fall… at my feet. Good evening."

Then, in a whisper of black leather, the Man leaves.


	4. The Big Event

It's late Saturday afternoon, and Ian hasn't heard from Sherlock all day.

He knows he doesn't need to worry: the consulting detective and his faithful blogger John Watson helped recover a missing child on Thursday, and the story was front-page news. Ian Adler's only concern is whether or not Sherlock will visit him as promised.

Or was that warned?

Part of him- the dark side that made him rich and infamous- hopes that Sherlock changes his mind. Ian's professional impartiality has never been so close to the brink of surrender before. The sharp-tongued and steely-eyed detective occupies his thoughts entirely too much these days. It can't be good for business, although business is actually _damned_ good.

The other part of him- the man but not the Man- is infatuated with the curly-haired almost-lover who crawls into his bed to escape the nightmares of daily life. He's not sure how much of a future there is in their 'relationship' but he's not averse to finding out.

As he sits in the cab, on his way home from a delightful session with the tea heiress, his mobile dings. It's a text from his personal manservant, Allen.

_He's here, Sir. A_

No need to specify who 'he' is. For Ian Adler, there's only one.

Ian's heart races as he composes a reply.

_Tell me everything. IA_

While he waits for a reply, he asks the driver to pull over at a Starbuck's just ahead. He doesn't particularly need the caffeine, but he does want time to prepare himself mentally. Maybe even spiritually.

_He said to tell you 'it's time'. He wanted to go directly to your chamber but I distracted him with some body modification books from the library. Thought it better to speak with you first. Instructions, Sir? A_

Like all trusted servants, Allen knows everything. He's aware that this is no ordinary visit and that Sherlock will be offering something he can never present to anyone else again. Special preparations will be in order.

Ian replies: _Tell Jeremy and Moira to prepare him. Inside and out. I shall be home in an hour. By the time I arrive, I want him to be in my chamber, on full blackout. Understood? IA_

_Yes, Sir. A_

The cabbie stops outside the Starbucks. Ian pays him to wait and goes inside. He orders a double espresso, adds honey to sweeten its dark bite, and takes a chair near the faux-fireplace, amidst uni students and that special brand of individual who hunches over their laptop in coffee shops from dawn until dusk. He's conscious of admiring stares from a slinky redhead at a nearby table: she's licking the foam on her cappuccino so seductively that at any other time, Ian might have been tempted to go over and ask if she bruised easily. But he's got someone else on his mind right now.

As he drinks the bittersweet brew, Ian imagines what must be taking place at his Kensington townhouse right now. Checking his watch, he estimates that Sherlock is presently naked and reclining in the preparation room's sunken marble Jacuzzi while two house subs scrub him down. In another fifteen minutes, the detective will be kneeling on a thick towel, arse up and chest down, submitting to a deep cleansing enema. He won't like it- none of them ever do, unless it's a fetish- but he will know better than to fight the procedure or his attendants, because all of them are extensions of Ian's will.

Heat kindles slowly but persistently in the Man's groin. As he shifts in the plush chair and crosses his legs, he catches a glimpse of the store's security camera on the ceiling corner, and immediately thinks of Mycroft Holmes. It's been two days now since their encounter. Ian's reasonably sure that Sherlock's omnipotent brother won't retaliate against him for the abrupt reversal of power, but he knows that the man will always be watching.

And waiting. If he ever did hurt Sherlock in any way that wasn't begged for, Ian Adler knows that he would mysteriously disappear. He suspects that Mycroft is content to leave him with that knowledge hanging over his head like a sword of Damocles.

He orders another coffee, and consumes it in his own particular style: take three sips of scorching and bitter heat, and then add honey and enjoy at a more leisurely pace. It's a ritual that parallels his professional technique: harsh at the beginning, then sweetening as the client's surrender begins and unfolds.

A text from Allen arrives.

_He's in your chamber, Sir. Ready. A._

A cameraphone photo accompanies the message. When Ian sees it, his pupils explode into huge black pools of lust. Blood roars in his ears. The room is suddenly too warm for comfort. He stands abruptly and hurries back to the idling cab.

"I'll pay double the fare if you get me to Kensington in ten minutes," he tells the driver.

The photo sears his mind like a branding iron. He tries to stay in control, but the longer he gazes at the image of that bound and graceful form lying on his bed, the more he feels the iron slip from his resolve. Finally, just as the cab is turning onto his street, Ian Adler comes in his trousers for the first time since he was thirteen.

* * *

He wants to rush upstairs the moment he enters the house, but the presence of servants mandates decorum. So he feigns patience and allows Moira, an Irish law student who serves him on weekends, to kiss his boots and take his coat. When she tells him how exquisite Sherlock looks right now, his surface calm is nearly punctured, but he thanks her coolly and proceeds up the stairs.

Allen meets him at the chamber's door.

"He's going to be quite _relieved_ by your presence, Sir," the valet says. "Patience is definitely not one of his virtues."

The thought of a frustrated, desperately hard Sherlock waiting for him only a few feet away makes Ian's skin turn uncomfortably warm. "Thank you for preparing him."

Allen's appraising eye runs over his master. "With respect, Sir, I believe you require some preparation too," he says gently.

He doesn't specify physical or mental, but Ian knows that he needs both. He's about to charge into the room, skin damp with sweat and semen. He needs to stop. Reclaim his composure. In other words, get ready.

"Yes," he says after a drawn-out exhale. Allen is the only one he doesn't need to pretend around. "You're right. Of course."

While Allen stays with Sherlock, Ian showers and changes into a black silk robe with jade green undertones. It's his favourite: under the lights, the robe's colour makes it resemble a beetle's carapace. Battle armour, as one former sub put it. Ian has decided that it's just as suitable for making love as well as war.

When he returns to his chamber, Allen nods respectfully and leaves. Ian doesn't remember afterward if he acknowledged the gesture: his entire focus is on the man curled up on his bed.

Sherlock is technically naked because he isn't wearing any clothes. But he is covered- from shoulders to toes in a sheer black silk. Under Allen's direction, the detective's slender body has been wrapped in strips of fabric that's reserved for immobility fetishists, keeping his arms pressed to his sides and leaving only his arse, cock, and nipples exposed. He's also blindfolded, gagged, and wearing earplugs barely visible through his dark hair.

Ian bites his lip. The scenario is perfect. Sherlock's only conduit to the world outside his mind is the skin on his erogenous zones. Every touch will be amplified in those places: theoretically, Sherlock could eventually come from the flick of a thumb on his nipple.

Allen has moved a portable cart next to the bed, and laid out an assortment of toys and implements, all of them specially prepared for a sensory deprivation experience. Making a mental note to give the man a raise later, Ian picks up a soft flogger and slowly, teasingly, runs its braided tails along Sherlock's smooth arse.

The effect is dramatic. The detective utters a choked yelp and his head shoots off the pillow. His nostrils widen as he sniffs the air. Ian doesn't bother reassuring him- Sherlock's hardening cock is definitely not a fear response.

"Naughty, greedy young man," the Man murmurs, rotating his wrist so that the flogger tips brush Sherlock's skin in suggestive circles. "Did you get impatient waiting for me to come home from work?"

Sherlock can't hear him, but there's a definite impatience in his reaction. He rolls onto his front and arches his back, presenting his buttocks for more attention.

"Oh, yes," Ian continues, "you need it badly, don't you?" He shivers with pleasure and his own cock swells just before he brings the flogger down. Hard.

It all happens in delicious tandem: the leather cracks loudly, Sherlock screams around the gag, and ivory flesh flushes scarlet. So aroused he can barely breathe, Ian strikes two more times, hitting the sweet spot where the thighs meet the buttocks. Sherlock twists on the sheets and rubs his cock against the mattress, the pain amplifying his excitement. His obvious pleasure makes the Man's mouth water.

"I love you like this," Ian says, tossing the flogger aside and climbing onto the mattress. "Desperate. I wonder if you taste as delicious as you look right now."

He grasps Sherlock's buttocks, marvelling at how hot the whipped skin feels beneath his palms, and spreads him open. The younger man's hole is warm and pink and tight, and when Ian bends forward and touches his tongue to it, he tastes heat and innocence.

As he squirms, Sherlock makes noises that sound like "Oh God". Ian opens him wider and licks careful, deliberate circles around the pucker, never pushing inward until Sherlock plunges his hips backward, trying to impale himself. Smiling triumphantly, Ian presses his tongue into his plaything's body. Sherlock's mangled moans are music to his ears.

He's never tasted a male virgin before. Sherlock's hole is musky and sweet and gloriously tight: the sphincter muscle clutches his tongue and actually pulls it deeper inside. The detective tries to spread his legs but the silk bindings prevent him, resulting in a frustrated moan.

"Dreadfully impatient," Ian croons before pulling back, picking up a bottle of lube off a pile of towels, and replacing his tongue with his slick finger. Sherlock's moans are so desperate and needy in tone that Ian has to give his own balls a sharp tug to keep from coming at once. He doesn't think he will ever get tired of turning the pompous, condescending detective into a sobbing, pleading wreck.

He slides a second lubricated finger into Sherlock's arse, holding still until the muscle relaxes enough to permit movement. Then he draws them in and out in a careful rhythm. He uses his other hand to stroke himself, anticipating the moment when that tight pink opening will be wet with lube and stretched around his cock.

"You're exquisite, Sherlock Holmes," he murmurs, curling his fingers and applying perfect pressure to the younger man's prostate. On impulse he leans forward and digs his teeth into one red buttock, biting down hard enough to bruise the skin. Sherlock doesn't appear to mind, not if his cry of ecstasy is any indication.

He takes his hand away from his cock and reaches around to take Sherlock's instead. His palm is already slick with his own pre-ejaculate, so Sherlock eagerly fucks the Man's fist, his hip movement driving the fingers of Ian's other hand back and forth across his prostate. The dual stimulation has him shaking all over and breathing in short, harsh gasps.

Ian can't hold back any longer. Sherlock doesn't need or even want to be seduced, and Ian's always been a proponent of the old saying 'If it doesn't hurt a little it isn't really fun'.

He carefully takes his hands away, wipes them on a towel, and leans over to remove Sherlock's earplugs. He hisses behind clenched teeth as his cock drags wetly across Sherlock's buttocks.

"Ready?" he whispers, sliding his tongue into the whorl of his soon-to-be lover's ear. "Are you ready to feel me take you? Feel my cock? Inch by inch?"

Sherlock's lips are wet with drool. Ian undoes the gag and tosses it aside, all the while sliding his erection along Sherlock's arse crack.

"Hmmm, my pet? Do you want to feel me? Say it."

The detective's voice is hoarse from his earlier screams. "Yes, Sir. Please, yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want your cock in my arse, Sir."

The phrasing is not as pornographic as what his regular clients can come up with, but its effect on Ian Adler is dramatic. He growls, sits up, and grabs a pair of scissors from the implement table. With a flash of steel and two quick snips, he cuts away from silk from Sherlock's legs and pulls him to his knees.

"Then you shall have it," he purrs harshly.

* * *

Ian rolls on a condom and smears his cock liberally with lubricant after positioning a towel to catch the overspill. "Spread your legs more and arch your back," he orders. When Sherlock obeys, Ian can see the other man's cock jutting out, framed by two milky thighs.

He's never felt luckier in his life.

Ian rises onto his knees, grasps his slick erection at the base, and presses it gently against Sherlock's hole. The detective catches his breath and tenses, but Ian pushes forward until the head pops inside. Then he stops, lids fluttering at the scorching tightness around his cock, and waits. He wants to bury himself completely in that snug, slick heat, but doesn't want to cause the man beneath him any pain or discomfort that can't be safely eroticised.

Sherlock whimpers into the pillow. "Oh- oh, that's… Sir, please, a moment. Please. So intense."

Ian drizzles more lube over his shaft and waits. Sherlock's thighs flex as he rocks back and forth slowly, taking more of the latex-covered tip into his body with each outward push. Ian lets him fuck himself like that until the tension dissolves from Sherlock's body and the detective's exploratory movements become more frantic. He's now ready for more and Ian gives it to him, grasping his shivering hips and plunging all the way inside.

Sherlock struggles, although it's obvious that he doesn't want to get away. "Oh!" he exclaims. "Oh, oh God!"

"This is me owning you, Sherlock," Ian whispers against his partner's neck as his hips rotate. "This is me _fucking_ you. Taking your sweet, tight arse. Do you like this? Hmmm? Do you want to belong to me always?"

He doesn't expect a definite answer: Sherlock has no idea what the future will hold, and neither does he. But the idea is so intoxicating that they both sigh in bliss. When Ian scrapes his teeth along his lover's neck and changes the angle of his thrusts slightly, Sherlock cries out.

"Oh, fuck, yes…oh, please Sir. There. Right there!"

"Show me how much you want it!" The Man's voice is sharp. So is the blow he lands on Sherlock's arse, but all both of them really feel is ecstasy. "Fuck yourself on me. Come now, let's see you. You're not a virgin any more, my pet- time to act like a slut."

Another slap. Sherlock howls and his hips squirm as he struggles to maintain the perfect angle. When he succeeds, his mouth goes slack with bliss and there's a discernible break in his rhythm. Ian throws his head back and swallows a moan as Sherlock's inner walls constrict around him, massaging his cock with a wet warmth that could lead to insanity if prolonged.

He decides to torment Sherlock a little by shifting his hips and taking the cherished pressure away from the younger man's sweet spot. Sherlock whines in frustration and fights to reclaim it. When he succeeds at last, the noises he makes are so lovely that Ian just watches, rapt, as he grinds and rotates for maximum stimulation.

"So wanton. I believe you need it a little harder," Ian says just before he grasps Sherlock's narrow hips, pulls out until only the wet tip of his cock is visible, and slams back in hard enough to leave them both breathless.

Ian feels his orgasm mounting, and knows that it won't be forestalled by manual pressure any longer. So he lunges downward, knocking Sherlock's legs out from under him and forcing both their bodies against the mattress. He snakes one arm across Sherlock's throat, and works the fingers of his other hand under the younger man's belly. When he finds Sherlock's slippery erection, he grasps it.

"Come on, pet," he urges as he strokes his lover's cock and fucks that tight arse simultaneously. Sherlock is dripping wet: Ian's fingers glide easily along the shaft and over his foreskin. "Let me see you come with a cock in your nice tight hole."

Sherlock rocks so wildly that the mattress squeals in protest. His whimpers escalate in pitch until he's screaming and he suddenly tenses all over, sphincter muscle as tight as an iron band around Ian's cock. When he starts to come, Ian's forearm closes off his breath: the Man knows from experience that the resulting euphoria makes the orgasm so intense that you wonder afterward if your soul has been ripped out along with your seed.

When Ian feels Sherlock's cock pulse and quiver and spill hot come all over his fist, he roars and pushes into the younger man with a force that nearly sends both of them crashing into the headboard. Releasing Sherlock's throat, he grunts, "Oh, good boy, yes, yes, yes!" Then he arches his back to bury himself as deeply as possible as he comes in one hot lava-hot wave after another.

He feels glorious, and as he stares down Sherlock's glowing, flushed face, he knows that he's not the only one.

* * *

Not surprisingly, Sherlock completely analyses their lovemaking afterward.

"My arse feels rather sore even though the act itself was not painful. I presume that's normal."

Ian tries not to laugh. "Yes."

"Hm." Sherlock shifts in the Man's arms until they're face to face. The servants have come and gone and now they're clean, comfortable, and basking in hormones. "So that was sex. I rather liked it."

Ian resists the urge to kiss those still-swollen lips. "That was a sexual _experience_."

Sherlock's eyes widen in visible curiosity. "Meaning?"

"Sex consists of several other acts too. It's a broad term, Sherlock. It encompasses so much." Mentally, he adds, _I hope you will let me teach you._

"Ah, yes." Sherlock extends an exploratory hand to Ian's hip. "We've never done fellatio, and there are other positions that merit exploration, judging from the pictures I've found on John's laptop. Not all of them can be accomplished between two men, so we shall have to improvise. I wish to try as many of them as possible."

It's not often that Ian is too aroused for words, but this is definitely one of those times. If he weren't still in his refractory period, his cock would be spearing the younger man right in the gut.

"You're going to be insatiable," he finally says. "I shall have to take you firmly in hand, I see."

As he guides the Man's fingers to his stirring cock, Sherlock gives a cheeky grin and replies, "You may start now."


	5. His Master's Voice

Ian loves having Sherlock lying between his legs. But tonight is especially delicious because he's teaching a thirty-four year old man how to properly masturbate.

"Lie back further," he purrs into the detective's ear, his breath causing gooseflesh to explode all over that perfect skin, "I'm going to show you how to make yourself feel so good."

Sherlock swallows loudly as he lets his full weight rest on Ian's chest. They're leaning against the headboard on the Man's bed, their bodies flickering red in the Christmas lights from the townhouse across the road. Visually it's like making love in a darkroom, only it's passion they're developing, not film.

"You're going to miss me while you're in America with Dr. Watson, aren't you?" Ian's hands run all over Sherlock's bare chest. He had donned a pair of black silk pyjamas after their shared bath but insisted that Sherlock remain naked.

"Yes, Sir."

"And I shall miss you. But every time you pleasure yourself, you will think of me, won't you?"

Sherlock clutches Ian's thighs, which bracket his waist and anchor him. "God, yes, Sir."

"Good boy." The Man pinches one dark nipple, relishing the gasp that results. "Now close your eyes."

Sherlock shivers as he obeys. His stiff cock pokes the cool air. Ian's hard too, but he resists the urge to rut against his lover's back.

"Let's begin, shall we? I want you to start by sucking on the fingers of your right hand. Get them nice and wet. Then play with your nipples: they're delightfully sensitive."

The detective brings his long white digits to his mouth, wetting them down to the first knuckle. Glistening fingertips trail down to his nipples, which are hard enough to cut glass. They become even stiffer as he grazes their very edges, coating the darkening skin with saliva. A single pinch to one of them makes his stomach muscles tighten and knees shiver.

Ian smiles. "Very good. Now use your left hand to touch your balls. Do it slowly. Gently."

Sherlock's long legs fall open even wider as he cups his testicles, which are smooth and tight and hard. His movements are initially tentative and exploratory, but once he discovers a pressure that feels good, a small smile curls his lips.

"Mmm. Oh. Th-that's nice."

"Keep doing that," the Man orders. "Do not touch your cock until I tell you to. Understood?"

The detective nods, his real attention clearly elsewhere. Ian bites his shoulder. Hard.

"Answer me, pet."

"Ow!" Sherlock's eyes fly open and his hands go still. "Y-yes! Sir, yes, I understand."

"Excellent." The Man's tongue bathes the livid bite marks. "Now continue."

Sherlock exhales, breathing out the pain, before he closes his eyes and resumes his ministrations. Soon he's shifting on the sheets, soft noises percolating in his throat as his nipple pinches become firmer and he discovers a sensitive place behind his testicles. As the minutes pass in the scarlet-hued darkness, Ian sees that he's growing desperate to touch his erection: the hand caressing his sack keeps moving upward, and he repeatedly pulls it back with a frustrated moan.

"Incredible," Ian says. "You've _never_ indulged yourself like this before?"

"Not like this, Sir," Sherlock whispers. "I- I always regarded the body as transport."

"And now you understand that it's also a vehicle of pleasure."

Peering down, Ian can see that the forced neglect has left Sherlock's penis swollen and angry-looking. It lies against that flat belly, smearing the soft skin with clear fluid as it twitches in sync with Sherlock's racing pulse.

"Please, Sir." Sherlock arches his back, his head digging into Ian's collarbone. "May I touch my cock now?"

Ian wants to grant him permission, to see him unravel even more. But the detective still has to learn that manipulation- whether it be in the form of begging, sulking, or complaining- won't get him anywhere. They're almost at that point in his training, but not quite.

His right hand goes to Sherlock's throat. "What will you do if I say no? Disobey me?"

"N-no, Sir. But I might go mad."

He sounds desperate enough for it to be a possibility. Smiling, Ian says, "Well, we can't have that, can we? But in my house, the more you want something, the bigger the price."

Sherlock listens.

"I'll let you touch your cock without further preamble. But once this session ends, you must accept five strokes from my cane."

It's more of a threat than a bargain, and the Man knows it. Sherlock loves being cropped, flogged, and whipped, but he loathes the rattan cane and submits to it only when the promised reward outweighs the instrument's white-hot bite and the humiliation of being punished like a schoolboy.

The detective exposes the depth of his need when he whispers, "I accept, Sir."

"Very well, then." Ian releases his throat with a calmness that masks his excitement. Making Sherlock submit arouses him like nothing else does. "Hold yourself snugly at the base with your left hand. Then bring your fist up slowly, twisting it when you reach the tip."

Sherlock follows those instructions, shuddering when his fingers close around his shaft. After taking a deep, prolonged breath he strokes upward until his fist pushes the foreskin up and over the slick tip, smearing his palm with pre-ejaculate.

"Oh," he moans.

"Again," Ian orders. "Keep stroking yourself like that until I tell you to stop. I also want you to continue pinching your nipples with as much force as you find pleasurable." He leans in closer. "As you do, imagine that your fingertips are my teeth, nibbling at your sensitive flesh."

"Yes, Sir."

Sherlock, fingers still moist with saliva, circles his right nipple before applying a pressure that makes him hiss and shift in the Man's arms. When the thumb of his other hand bumps against the sweet spot under the head of his penis, he cries out and his hips jerk upward. Ian can feel the heated arousal that now races through that pale body.

"How does it feel, Sherlock?" he croons. "Tell me everything."

"It- it's like I'm losing control," the detective stutters. He sounds both excited and afraid. "I'm not used to this. It feels so good but so dangerous."

"Because you're doing it to yourself."

"Yes."

"Sherlock." Ian holds him tighter. "I understand that in the past, you fell victim to unsafe indulgences. But trust me when I tell you that giving yourself this kind of pleasure will never harm you."

Sherlock nods. Ian kisses his jaw line.

"You're so beautiful like this. Continue."

Sherlock quickly finds the perfect combination of sensation and rhythm. With each upstroke he massages the underside of his cockhead, setting off nerve-storms that make his toes curl. "Oh," he sighs, digging his heels into the mattress and fucking his fist in slow, lazy motions. "Must take it slow, mustn't let it happen too quickly…."

"That's right, my pet. Pace yourself." Ian continues to cradle Sherlock against his chest as he reaches for the lube on the nearby towel stack. The slight shift in position causes his erection to brush against the euphoric detective's back, and only his phenomenal self-control keeps him from throwing Sherlock down and fucking him into the mattress. "Give me your right hand."

Sherlock reluctantly releases one puffy nipple and reaches backward. Ian squeezes a generous amount of the fast-warming gel onto his fingers.

"Now play with your hole. Just the rim. No penetrating yourself yet."

Sherlock nods again and lets his now-slick hand glide between his legs. Ian watches the tendons in his forearm flex and contract as he explores the opening that only Ian has ever breached.

"Talk to me," the Man urges after a few minutes pass.

"I-I feel myself relaxing, Sir. The muscle is becoming soft and slick." Sherlock licks his lips. The hand on his cock moves faster. "I'm imagining it's your tongue, pushing and licking at me."

Ian's throat becomes so tight that swallowing is next to impossible. He's so hard that it hurts. The pyjama fabric that separates his erection from Sherlock's lower back is soaked. When he can finally speak, he says, "Put one finger all the way in. I want you to find that spot that gives you so much pleasure whenever I fuck you."

Not all men find their own prostate easily, Ian knows. He's had male clients who fumble blindly inside themselves until he takes pity on them and provides the anatomical version of driving directions. Sherlock, however, finds the right spot the moment he curls his finger. The response is electrifying: he sucks in a sharp and searing breath, his legs kick out, and the trembling in his limbs escalates to full-blown shaking.

"Press harder," Ian commands.

When Sherlock obeys, his eyes fly open and his hips thrust toward the ceiling. The hand on his cock moves faster. "Oh my God," he hisses through clenched teeth. "Oh, it's so much. I-I can't-"

Ian seizes his wrist, keeping it in place. "Yes, you can. And you will, because it pleases me to watch you like this. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good." Ian releases him after a warning squeeze. Every now and then Sherlock needs firm reminders of their relationship's dynamic. "Now use two fingers."

Sherlock does as he's told, grunting and cursing under his breath as he fucks himself. His cock is so stiff that it barely bends when he massages it, and his balls are tight against his body. One particularly deep inward thrust has him biting his tongue to hold back a shout.

He's nearly there, so the Man decides to force him across the finish line. After kissing his sweat-damp neck, Ian picks up the discarded lube bottle, flicks it open with his thumb, and drizzles some of its contents over an anal vibrator sitting on a towel like some sacred offering. He bought it for Sherlock that morning, and the thought of watching the detective use it now has fire pooling in his gut.

"You know what to do with this," he says as he switches it on and holds it out.

Sherlock does know. He pulls his fingers out of his arse, takes the slick, rumbling device, and presses it against his loosened hole. After inhaling deeply, he pushes it in slowly, moaning as the ribbed surface teases his sensitive insides.

Ian knows what will happen next, and moves quickly. He grabs and holds both of Sherlock's wrists just as the toy's curved tip settles against the other man's prostate.

"Oh- oh, God!" Sherlock babbles, surging forward as he fights the Man's hold. The sweat that merely gave his body a lovely sheen seconds ago is now thick enough to run down his face and chest, soaking the sheets. Ian knows that the more he struggles, the more the vibrator will shift inside him, touching him _everywhere_. He finally stops thrashing and slumps against Ian, eyes half-closed and hips grinding against the bed, driving the toy deeper.

"Good boy," Ian soothes as he releases Sherlock's wrists. "Now touch your cock. Let me see you come."

The detective takes his erection in both hands this time, creating a slippery, full-length tunnel for him to thrust into. Using his thumb, he rubs that heavenly spot just below the head while his hips shudder and the toy buzzes mercilessly against his prostate.

"Thank you, Sir, thank you, thank you," he chants before it happens.

Ian watches his face as ecstasy tears through his body, shattering his senses and making him come so hard that his power of speech is lost and there's only mindless shouting. Sperm shoots everywhere: some even hits the Man's face and trails down his cheek in a lava-hot drizzle.

Ian's tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth, snaring a taste as he hugs his lover tightly through the post-orgasm tremors. Sherlock's ejaculate is thick and just sweet enough to offset the normally bitter tang of sperm. It makes him hungry for more, and when he sees Sherlock pull the vibrator out, he knows exactly what he needs to do next.

Ian slides away from Sherlock, grasps him by the back of the neck, and forces him onto all fours, with his face buried in the mattress and arse raised. The sight of the young man's wet, spasming hole is so inflammatory that Ian yanks down the waistband of his pyjamas and rolls on a lubricated condom without his usual finesse.

"That was a lovely sight, Sherlock. I'm sure you must be exhausted right now, but you can rest after I fuck you."

Sherlock only has time to groan his consent before Ian's cock pierces him to the hilt. His internal muscles clamp down, still tight despite the earlier fingering and vibrator play.

"That's it, Sherlock," the Man sighs as he briefly stills, fingers digging into his lover's hips. "Such a good boy, staying so lovely and tight for your Master's cock."

He pounds into Sherlock's arse, his need to come overriding his usual preference for more pre-fuck verbal domination. When he comes hard and deep, he feels like he's been turned inside out.

Maybe, in the non-literal sense, he has. His clients command his time, but Sherlock rules something much deeper.

* * *

After they both sleep for a few hours, Ian delivers on his promise of five strokes from the cane. The blows leave blue-black stripes on Sherlock's buttocks and even break the skin in places, but Ian's going to _miss_ him, damn it, and wants to ensure that the detective remembers him while sitting, wearing tight trousers, etc, during the next two weeks, even though the Atlantic Ocean divides them.

When Sherlock looks over his shoulder after the last blow is struck, face glowing beneath the pain-induced tears, and begs for five more, Ian knows that Sherlock will miss him too.


	6. Crime Scene

Ian approaches this encounter like all of the others he's had with Sherlock. He doesn't wonder why it's happening or ask what the man shivering beneath him wants. He doesn't reveal how he reacted when he got the pleading text that summoned him here. Sherlock doesn't need to know about the elevated heartbeat and aching crotch that these messages bring.

But since he's Sherlock Holmes, he probably does know.

Sherlock is lying naked on the hotel room bed, ignoring the bloodstains on the rug and the crime scene tape draped everywhere. He won't say why this particular murder unsettled him so much, but since a Colombian drug lord was decapitated with machine gun fire in this very room and cocaine is smeared across the desktop like spilled flour, Ian can guess.

Defying temptation can be even sweeter than giving in to it.

_Don't touch your cock before my arrival_, the Man had ordered. But no such restriction was placed on anal stimulation, so when Ian arrived he found the detective face-down on the mattress, trousers and pants lowered far enough to give his long fingers access to his hole. Five minutes later, Sherlock was naked, hands cuffed behind his back and struggling to relax as Ian's gloved, slicked digits began to finish what he started.

Sherlock gasps and twists on the sweat-heavy bedclothes when the first finger slides into his body. It breaches him easily, thanks to his earlier fumbling and the generous application of lube. Ian explores the silky, hot inner walls for awhile, enjoying the way Sherlock pleads for more without actually _pleading_: those long white thighs spread further, the pillow muffles eager moans, and he grinds his cock against the mattress. That last one earns him a soft rebuke and a hard slap on the arse.

"All in good time, Sherlock. I decide what you get and when."

Ian withdraws, but Sherlock isn't left empty for long. The moment he exhales, two digits penetrate him to the third knuckle, making his toes curl and his back arch like a dancer's.

Ian licks his lips as the band of muscle squeezes his fingers. He yearns to push further inside and start scissoring, to spread Sherlock open and undo him yet again. But the exposure to cocaine –his former reason for living- has left the detective wound up tighter than a violin string. Tension causes his muscles to stand out in sweat-glossed relief, and his breathing is harsh and ragged. He needs to relax, and the only way to accomplish that is to take control of the situation away from him. Robbed of choice, that overactive brain will go quiet and let his body submit.

"Got yourself in quite the state, haven't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You did the right thing by calling me." Ian lifts his gaze long enough to survey the bloodstains and cocaine drifts. "It's a cruel world, isn't it?"

"Yes. But so are you, sometimes."

"Mmm, quite so. But cruel in a different sense."

_The sense that keeps you centred, Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it even keeps you alive._

Ian slides his fingers out, removes the glove, and retrieves the padded leather cuffs from his bag. He attaches them to Sherlock's ankles, bends those long legs at the knee, and uses a double-ended clasp hook to connect the wrist and ankle restraints. The hogtied position forces Sherlock's knees apart, leaving his lube-coated hole at Ian's mercy.

This time two gloved fingers go in easily. Robbed of any ability to resist, Sherlock relaxes and presses his face deeper into the pillow. "Thank you, Sir," he breathes as Ian draws out and pushes back in, building up a slow and tantalising rhythm. When Ian presses a third finger in after adding more lube, Sherlock cries out and spreads his legs further, grinding his crotch into the mattress.

"Oh _fuck_, yes…"

Ian grabs a fistful of those silky curls and jerks the detective's face off the pillow. "If you come without permission," he warns, "I will leave you tied up here when we're done." He won't, of course, but just the thought of Lestrade and the Yarders- especially Donovan and Anderson- discovering him hogtied in a puddle of his own sperm makes Sherlock go still. "Do I make myself clear, pet?"

The detective nods, although his pupils remain huge with excitement.

"I'm glad that's understood. But there's the small matter of you failing to call me Sir just now. Do you suddenly fancy yourself to be my equal?"

That's another fiction that Sherlock needs to believe in order to make this all work. On a subliminal level the pale young man knows that his consent underscores their games, but he relies on Ian to make it seem otherwise. It's the only way he can be sufficiently distracted to find peace.

He shakes his head in response to the Man's question. "No, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

Ian releases his hair, trying hard not to smile. "If you lived with me full-time," he says as he twists his slick fingers, approaching the spot that always makes Sherlock a slave to his body and the Man who now controls it, "your place would be obvious. You would not be permitted to wear clothes except on the rare occasions that I let you out of the house. I believe I would keep your cock caged for the first week, and add an extra day of confinement for every time you fail to show me the proper respect."

He finds Sherlock's prostate and massages it slowly.

"I'd milk you like this every day that your cock is imprisoned, to ensure that aching balls don't distract you from your primary purpose: serving me." He leans over Sherlock's shuddering back to whisper directly into the young man's ear. "Your demons – like the boredom- would never find you in my house."

"They never do, Sir," Sherlock gasps as he pushes back against the Man's hand. "Oh, please, Sir."

Ian knows that the scenario he has just described will never happen. Sherlock requires frequent taming, but he's not meant to be domesticated. But the mere fantasy had them both excited; Ian uses his free hand to undo his leather trousers and take out his cock, which is stiff and wet with anticipation.

Sherlock's sphincter muscle has relaxed enough that Ian can gently separate his fingers, creating a pleasant stretch that makes the detective moan and slide his knees further apart.

"More, Sir, please," he begs.

"You'll need to be more specific," Ian replies. He's stroking himself, careful to let the pre-ejaculate drain onto the towel he's laid out for that purpose. Another, thicker one lies beneath Sherlock. It wouldn't do for either of them to leave extra DNA for a returning forensics team to discover. "More what? Another finger? My tongue?" He pauses. "My cock?"

He tries not to sound too hopeful.

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow, letting the Man see the fever now burning in his grey eyes. "Yes, your cock, please, Sir," he rasps.

Ian waits until Sherlock's face is buried again. Then he grins widely, takes out his fingers, and tosses the glove into the plastic bag at his feet. "Very well," he says as he releases the snap hook that keeps the other man hogtied. "Arse up then."

Sherlock struggles onto his knees while keeping his shoulders down. His tight buttocks glisten with an overspill of lube. When Ian rolls on a condom and runs a slick finger around the swollen rim of the hole gaping before him, Sherlock makes an obscene noise that goes straight to the Man's cock. That comparatively light touch seems to have caused every erogenous nerve in the detective's body to start firing.

"Keep making those delectable sounds, pet," Ian murmurs, "and I shall come before you can get what you want. We can't have that, can we?"

Sherlock promptly bites the pillow. He lets his raised arse and quivering thighs broadcast his desperation until Ian's cock slides into him in one slick, brutal, and _perfect_ push. Then he arches his back to turn the angle from delicious to divine and gasps brokenly, "Please, please… Sir, fuck me!"

Ian draws back until only the latex-covered tip brushes teasingly around the twitching, wet muscle. "How can I refuse such a lovely plea?" he asks rhetorically before shoving back in with such aggression that Sherlock is ploughed across the mattress and nearly hits the headboard. While the detective grunts and struggles to re-orient himself, the Man grabs his hips to hold him in place and fucks him so brutally that the mattress springs squeal in protest.

Ian has never had sex at a murder site before, and the smell of drying blood -which represents a life violently lost- actually makes him feel more alive. He's overwhelmed with gratitude that he still draws breath and can see and touch and feel things, namely the body of the beautiful man moaning and clenching around his cock. It all triggers an explosive orgasm that leaves him jerking and hissing and squeezing Sherlock's hips so tightly that his fingers leave long-term bruises.

Beneath him, Sherlock twists and makes pleading, guttural noises. Finally he manages to form words. "Please, Sir, need to come…. Please!"

Ian extricates himself slowly, bins the sperm-heavy condom, and reaches between Sherlock's legs. The young man's cock pulses and skips in his grasp, warning that orgasm is en route. As he releases it gently, he experiences a sudden and irresistible urge to do something to Sherlock that he's rarely done with other men.

Before Sherlock can plead again, Ian flips him onto his back and leans over. "You may come now," he says just before his lips close around that twitching cock and draw its entire length down his throat.

He's only done this with actual lovers in the past. Never with anyone whom he only sees when their typical restraint is surpassed by their need for his services. He has no qualms about using his fingers and cock on clients, and if the person is a special pet, like Sherlock, he'll occasionally use his tongue to prepare an arse or pussy for a good pounding. This -sucking cock during an assignation- is unprecedented. He wonders briefly if he should be worried, but when Sherlock cries out and starts to come, Ian decides he'll deal with it later.

The volume and intensity of Sherlock's orgasm forces him to swallow more than once. He closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of power as his throat takes all the other man has to give without a single drop going astray. When Sherlock finally collapses against the sheets, Ian slips a finger into his still-slick hole and milks out any remnants. He only desists when Sherlock is so sensitive inside and out that the feather-light pressure from Ian's fingertip and tongue makes him shiver in agony instead of ecstasy.

"Well," the Man says after pulling his mouth and finger away and giving that now-flaccid cock a final affectionate squeeze, "you are quite the challenge to my professional impartiality."

Sherlock doesn't respond immediately. His lids are heavy and the massive hormone release has left him too languid to form words. Finally he asks, "How do you do it?"

"I do a lot of things to you," Ian smiles as he rolls Sherlock onto his side and removes the handcuffs. The ankle restraints follow. "Be specific."

"Make the world go away."

After zipping up his trousers, Ian stretches out beside the other man. "I don't. I just make it a better place for awhile."

"Mm." Sherlock rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. Suddenly his lips twitch and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "John once told me not to giggle at a crime scene. But I did more than that tonight." He cracks one eye open and gazes at Ian. "What does that make me, I wonder?"

The Man presses his fingers gently against that long white throat. "It makes you mine."

Sherlock relaxes into the grip and smiles wearily. Then his eyes close and, for the first time in days, he is able to sleep.


	7. Breaking His Action Man

**A/N: TW for noncon and attempted sexual assault.**

* * *

No one has managed to intrigue Ian Adler as much as Sherlock Holmes, but the client bound to the bed comes close.

Ian watches as the raven-haired man shifts on the mattress, skin luminous against the dark sheets. Lean but well-developed muscles strain against the cuffs that bind his wrists and ankles to the bed's iron frame. His cock, which is pierced, lies red and dripping against his flat belly.

"Comfortable, Mr. Brook?"

The man has a leather bit between his teeth, so he can only nod in reply.

"Yes? Then I'm clearly not doing my job."

After rolling up the sleeves of his black silk shirt, Ian selects a long leather cord from the array of implements on the bedside table. Seeing the curiosity in the man's stare, he winks.

"This cord doesn't look as formidable as the rest of the toys in my arsenal, does it? But you'll be pleasantly surprised by what it can do."

He threads it through the metal ring in Brook's collar and ties a knot. Then, with a wicked smile, he attaches the other end to the man's cock, running the cord through the circular Prince Albert piercing before wrapping it several times below the head. His fingers, long and sleek in tight leather gloves, are instantly covered with pre-ejaculate.

"Now you've gotten me dirty, Mr. Brook." When he finishes tying the knot directly over the sensitive spot beneath the glans, Ian wipes his glove clean on the man's lips. "I'm afraid that means punishment."

The gaze that meets his own as he picks up the riding crop is full of apprehension as well as excitement. There's even a trace of defiance, which Ian loves. Running the crop's tip along one cheekbone, he croons, "Look at that face. So angelic. But you've also got a touch of hellfire in you, don't you? I see it in your eyes."

Brook stills, and for a split second Ian does see something in those boyish features that makes him uneasy. He quickly collects himself.

"You're allowed to beg for mercy as best you can," he says just before bringing the crop down on one sweaty nipple.

The impact is loud but the man's muffled cry is louder. He arches his back, a movement that draws the collar further up his neck and causes the cord to tighten, yanking on his cock and stimulating its sweet spot. The resulting flash of pain and pleasure makes him struggle more, which in turn intensifies the torture. Ian knows what he is doing: there will be no penile damage, but for a few days this client won't be able do up his zip or even take a piss without feeling -and remembering- the Man's handiwork.

Ian runs the crop tip slowly to the other nipple. "When you told me you were an actor, I visited your website. You're very good. But the problem with actors is that you're never sure whether or not they're assuming a role with you."

Brook, who'd been watching the crop's progress, looks up at him, startled.

"Oh, I'm not judging. Putting on a facade must be second nature to you by now. It just means I'll have to work a little harder to meet the real Richard Brook. And I'm delighted to accept the challenge."

He strikes again, harder this time. The young man screams and resumes his thrashing, blissfully suspended in that surreal zone between pain and pleasure.

* * *

An hour later, the small room in Ian's townhouse smells of sweat, damp leather, hot wax, and cooling semen. Richard Brook, his skin pink with crop welts and light wax burns, lies bonelessly on the bed, lips parted in a dreamy smile as he basks in the hormones. When Ian removes the gag, he licks his lips and drawls, "That was fucking fantastic. Worth every penny."

"I'm glad I met your expectations." Ian peels off the latex gloves he'd worn for the prostate massage before undoing the restraints. "My assistant will see to you now. Misty!"

When the party in question- a part-time sub who is covering for his regular valet tonight- fails to appear, the Man frowns and approaches the doorway.

"Misty?"

"There was just one thing you failed to do, Mr. Adler," Brook says.

Ian turns around.

"You didn't meet the real Richard Brook. Because he doesn't exist." The man raises himself onto his elbows and gives a taunting little wave. "Jim Moriarty. Hi."

The Man tenses. "What's going on here?"

Brook / Moriarty's face instantly loses its fucked-out languor and assumes a cunning expression.

"Seb, darling, he's all yours."

The floorboards behind Ian creak, but before he can turn around or pull the knife from his belt, something heavy slams into the back of his head. His last conscious thought before blacking out is _I did see hellfire in those eyes._

* * *

He regains consciousness as they position him on a chair, one holding him upright while the other pulls his arms back. When he feels rope being wound around his wrists, Ian stays unresponsive but tightens his muscles there. He's been tied up before –and not always under erotic circumstances – and knows that once he relaxes, there will be just enough slack in the rope to let him reach the knot. Then he can-

Pain shoots through his wrists as thumbs descend cruelly onto the pressure points. He gasps and his eyes fly open.

"Now, now, Mr. Adler. Not fair to cheat," says the man who now calls himself Jim Moriarty. "I know that trick. Used it myself a few times."

The hands leave his wrists, which are now painfully secured. Then Moriarty strolls around to face him.

"All right," he chirps. "Question and answer time."

He's wearing a light grey Westwood suit, covering Ian's handiwork. Although he _looks_ like the angelic and boyish Richard Brook, Jim Moriarty has the smile of a hyena and eyes of a snake. A fallen angel. Lucifer in the flesh.

"First, a proper introduction is in order, don't you think? I'm James Moriarty, although you can call me Jim. And this is Sebastian Moran."

The man behind Ian goes to join his boss. Moran is a husky six-footer with blond hair cut military style. While Moriarty is sleek and dapper, Moran is all hard edges and thick muscle: his sleeveless shirt shows off bulging biceps, one of which has an exotic tattoo, and tight jeans cling to his solid legs. A long scar bisects his left eyebrow at the outer edge, branding him as a man who is not afraid of danger.

Ian sits up straighter, swallowing back a groan as his head throbs in protest. He wonders about Misty, and whether he should worry about her.

Or grieve.

"Where's my assistant?"

Moran snorts. "Tied up in a closet beneath the stairs. She was still breathing when I left her."

"You won't be that lucky if I get my hands around your neck. What do you both want?"

Moriarty laughs at the threat, but Moran reddens. "Watch it, fuckboy."

His boss touches his massive shoulder. "Seb, please. Mr. Adler's just being a gentleman."

"Gentleman, my arse. This ponce hasn't been a gentleman since he took his first pound for a pounding."

"I beg to differ." Moriarty steps closer to Ian, regarding the Man with real admiration. "He's an artist. A true artist. He doesn't beat people: he changes the world for them. Isn't that right?"

Ian says nothing. He tries to rotate his wrists in their bindings, but these two have done their work well.

Moriarty reaches out and strokes his cheek. "Your clients are powerful people, aren't they?" he croons, managing to sound both mocking and sympathetic at the same time. "Their words can make or break careers. Their decisions change _lives. _ They have everything money and influence can obtain. Which does not always include peace of mind. For that, they go to you."

His hand drifts lower, to Ian's jaw line.

"They pay you to reduce them to flesh and blood and tears and let them be human again for a few hours. Inside this house, the pressures and annoyances of the outside world go away." A pause as his fingers glide down to Ian's throat. "That's what you give Sherlock Holmes every time he comes to you, isn't it? Peace. And distraction."

This isn't the first time Ian has been asked about someone he's dominated. Journalists ring his doorbell on a routine basis, hungry for details about his illustrious clientele. As he meets Moriarty's gaze, his expression has a practiced indifference that conceals his apprehension.

_This is about Sherlock. They must want information about him._

"I have no idea who you're talking about," he says.

"Yes, you do. And even if I didn't have photos of him coming here at all hours, your pulse tells me I'm right." His forefinger massages the flesh over Ian's carotid artery. "When I said his name, your heart beat faster. You're not just a bit of rough for him, are you? You're lovers."

Ian jerks back, not wanting Moriarty to see into his soul next. Irritation and worry are now slowly being replaced by fear. These two clearly have an agenda that goes far beyond what he originally expected: robbery, brutalisation, maybe even rape. Horrible as these prospects are, he could survive them. He's experienced them all before, during those days when he was working the fetish clubs to survive. Jim Moriarty is a new threat, and one Ian hopes he can stand up to. For Sherlock's sake as well as his own.

"I can't help you. And do stop touching me."

Moran cracks his knuckles. "Jim, let me take over."

Moriarty steps back and regards his prisoner with something like regret. "You think we want information about Sherlock, don't you? You're wrong, Ian. I already know everything about him. No, I need you to help me burn the heart out of him at last."

He takes a digital camera out of his pocket, places it on the mantle with the lens facing Ian, and turns it on.

"I'm glad we had some playtime together, Ian. It wasn't originally part of the plan, but I was rather curious about what Sherlock sees in you. And now that I know, I truly regret being your last client. All right then, Seb. Proceed."

* * *

Moran's fingers dig into his hair, yanking his head back so that a thick length of fabric can be fitted between his teeth. The pain in his battered skull is excruciating, but Ian refuses to give these men the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

He's not afraid to suffer. He's been doing it most of his life: anti-Semitic taunts from his classmates, curses and blows from roving gangs of gay-bashers, severe 'training' at the hands of so-called Doms who merely wanted a fresh young body to abuse. But Ian _is_ afraid of how Sherlock will react when he sees the video. He glances at the camera on the mantle, its silent eye recording everything for Sherlock's future torment.

_I've always represented safety to him. I make the demons go away. Moriarty wants to shatter that for him, show him that safety is an illusion. Only darkness is real._

He knows how Sherlock will handle that message: seek oblivion in the cocaine needle or some other instrument of destruction. Moriarty knows it too. That's why all of this is happening.

And there's nothing he can do to stop it.

He glares up at Moran, who has circled to face him again. His lips pull back from his teeth and his eyes shoot daggers.

"Christ, Jim," the blond man snorts. "Look at him. You'd swear that he was the one with the upper hand."

Moriarty doesn't reply, but a strange grin splits his face. It's an eerie mix of admiration and disdain.

"Is he, Seb?"

Moran reddens. "Fuck, no," he snaps just before backhanding Ian with such force that the man's head jerks back and blood dribbles from one nostril. Ian shivers through the pain and takes several deep breaths through his nose, fighting to stay conscious.

Moran hits him again, this time in the stomach. Ian huffs through his nose as nausea burns in his gut. He starts to disassociate, an old trick that he learned in Israel, where his parents died and he walked through hell to avenge them. When he feels his shirt being torn open, he doesn't see Moran: he sees lush trees, cool lakes, and other balms that his mind conjures to protect him during these final moments.

But the hand that touches his clammy chest is not violent. Fingers trace gentle circles around his nipples, which harden with traitorous pleasure and draw him back into himself.

"You know, Jim, Holmes has really got himself something here," Moran says. "You already got a taste- mind if I have a go?"

"If you must," Moriarty says in a strange voice.

Moran straddles Ian, lowering his firm buttocks onto the Man's thighs. He leans forward and gently, sensuously grinds his hardening crotch against that of his prisoner. Ian shifts on the chair, trying to lessen the intensity of the contact, but it's too late: the friction sends blood rushing to his cock. Growling, Ian arches his back and tries to buck his tormentor off, but Seb braces his meaty hands against the wall behind them and massages their erections together with a terrible –and delicious- slowness. It's only through a supreme exercise of restraint that Ian doesn't cant his hips and make the contact _perfect._

"Your heart's going faster than a machine gun," Moran breathes against his neck. "Do I scare you, Adler?"

Ian shakes his head, but the movement turns jerky when Moran's hand slides between his legs. The massage that follows is tortuous: slow, thorough, and with only enough pressure to inflame him further.

"Maybe you're not afraid, but you're sure as fuck turned on."

Moriarty approaches slowly, head cocked. He manages to look fascinated and repulsed at the same time. "Seb, you are a positive degenerate," he says.

"Jealous?"

A twisted smile. "Always."

Moran laughs and looks over one beefy shoulder, toward the camera. "See this, Holmes?" he taunts as he squeezes Ian's cock, which is now painfully hard. His other hand roams over his victim's chest in broad, possessive circles. "I'm going to kill your little rent boy and he knows it, yet he's ready to _come _for me. He's hard for his own fucking executioner! What makes you think YOU were anything special to him?"

When Moran turns around, Ian butts him in the face, sending him tumbling off the chair. As the husky six-footer springs to his feet, nose dripping blood and murder in his eyes, Ian faces the camera and wills Sherlock to understand this final message.

_You are special to me._

Moran now has a knife in his fist. Moriarty's tongue darts across his lower lip.

_Special enough to die painfully for._

His head is yanked back, exposing his throat. He closes his eyes and returns to the trees and lakes.

A hoarse shout calls him back.

"DROP IT!"

* * *

Ian barely recognizes Misty. Her attractive face is marred by a bruised jawline and a scowl that would have done a street fighter proud. She also grips the handgun with unusual confidence for a cosmetology student, wrists bloody from where she's slipped her bonds.

Like Richard Brook, she's obviously not who she claimed to be.

"Drop the knife," she orders. "And raise your hands. This house is surrounded."

Ian feels the fingers slide out of his hair, and seizes his opportunity: planting his feet on the floor, he rises into a semi-crouch, chair pressed against his back, and slams into Moran shoulder-first, knocking the other man down. The impact throws him off balance and he falls too, landing on his left arm with such force that something snaps.

The room suddenly explodes in activity. Armed men in dark suits pour though the doorway, surrounding Moriarty and hauling the groaning Moran off the floor. Ian knows that severe pain makes one delirious, so he's not sure if he's really seeing Sherlock lunge past Misty into the room. When knees thud softly against the floorboards behind him and a gloved hand grasps his shoulder, he relaxes and believes.

"It's all right. You're all right." Sherlock's voice has a noticeable waver as he tackles the ropes biting into Ian's wrists.

"Yes, both of you are," Moriarty agrees, sounding chipper for someone with automatic weaponry aimed at his skull. "For now. But safety, like happiness, is an illusion, Sherlock. There's no place where I can't find you and play."

The detective's fingers pause. Ian knows that he is giving his longtime tormentor a glare that threatens more than words ever could.

"This isn't over, Sherlock. Trust me on that. And Mr. Adler: I meant what I said. You were worth every penny. Perhaps there'll be a next time for us too?"

Sherlock doesn't wants to reassure him, but the gag still seals his lips and he can't really think of anything to say before the pain in his broken arm becomes too much and darkness sets in.

* * *

Sherlock tells him everything afterward, when they're alone in his guarded hospital room.

"The girl- your assistant - works for Mycroft. He planted her in your house to keep an eye on what you -_we_- were doing. When she freed herself, she alerted him before going to your rescue. I was in his office when he took the call."

"She did endure corporal punishment rather well for someone supposedly new to the scene." Ian shifts on the bed, wincing as his arm throbs in its cast. His other hand is tethered to an IV line, making movement difficult. "I haven't decided yet whether I'm relieved or annoyed that your brother is so interfering. For now I'm inclined toward the former."

Sherlock lowers his eyes. "I saw what they tried to do to you."

Of course. The camera.

"Forgive me if I have no interest in watching it myself." Ian blinks rapidly to chase away the memories that tumble to the fore. He has enough nightmares to keep at bay as it is. "I assume that as guests of the British government, Mr. Moriarty and Mr. Moran are even less comfortable than I am right now?"

Sherlock's expression turns grim. "They escaped. Two hours ago, while you were in surgery. The van bringing them to a containment centre was ambushed." He steps back and begins to pace, hands tightening into fists. "I think it only fair to warn you that they will try again. Moran's a relative newcomer, but Moriarty has been engaging me in this… _contest_… for nearly two years. People have been compromised, injured, even murdered. And now you appear to have engaged his attention."

Ian recalls Moriarty's promise.

_And Mr. Adler: I meant what I said. You were worth every penny. Perhaps there'll be a next time for us too._

He's never been hunted before. Confronted, yes, by irate spouses and romantic partners, but this is different. Like a cat, Moriarty prefers to torment his prey before putting it out of its misery. Being tied to a chair, slapped about, and molested was only the beginning, Ian realises. But he also realises something else.

Sherlock stops pacing. "It's not too late for you. If our association stops, Moriarty might-"

Ian sits up straight, ignoring the way his broken arm aches in protest, and gestures for him to perch on the edge of the bed. "Look at me. Now."

The commanding undertone strikes home: the detective obeys. His expression is solemn but apprehensive.

"I don't think that either of us wants to end our association," Ian says. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock appears to have difficulty swallowing. "Yes," he finally manages. "At least I find the prospect rather distressing."

"You watched the video: they planned to assault and then murder me. Despite my… _physical_… responses to Moran's groping, I was afraid. No, make that terrified. But this is not the first time my life has been threatened because of what I am or who I know." Ian reaches out with his good hand, dragging the IV tubing across the blanket, and closes his fingers firmly around Sherlock's wrist. "Would you like to hear a secret?"

The other man nods.

"I don't chase danger like you do, Sherlock, but I don't run from it either. Sometimes it nearly gets me killed, like it did today. But that's a risk I'm willing to take for someone as important to me as you are." His grip tightens. "Do you understand?"

Sherlock lowers his head. "Yes, Sir."

That answer and its accompanying honorific indicate what he needs right now: to feel as safe as he usually does when they're together. Ian lies back down and pulls him forward, stern mask hiding the protective affection that warms his blood.

"Lie down with me."

"Oh, yes, Sir," Sherlock breathes as he stretches out on the bed. When Ian rolls onto his side Sherlock follows suit, pressing his back against the Man's chest.

"Now I want you to sleep, because you're clearly exhausted. And if you're thinking about resisting, remember that I still have one good arm to punish you with."

Sherlock smiles and nods. "Yes, Sir," he mumbles, succumbing to exhaustion. When Ian's bandaged arm drapes across his chest, holding him closer and restricting his movement, he sighs and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Sir," he whispers.

Ian's lips touch his cheek. "Save your pity for Moriarty and Moran. They'll need it."


End file.
